Carryin the Banner, or Newsies: The Novelization
by stillgoldie1899
Summary: The life of Jack Kelly, starting at "Carryin the Banner", and ending...? Filling in holes, and making gross assumptions after the cameras panned away. Roosters! Puppies! Blatant Criminality! Fun for the whole family! Chapter 4 now available.
1. Chapter 1

Jack Kelly sometimes wondered if a rooster crowing in the morning was more, or less annoying then Kloppman. Because while the rooster was capable of pecking his eyes out, it was not exactly likely to do so, and old man Kloppman was very likely to nearly push him from his bunk while bellowing at him to get up, that ink was wet, presses rolling, and he was meant to be selling newspapers.

As he rolled out of bed, Jack found himself daydreaming about roosters, eyes blurry, head fuzzy, stomach in open revolt after a night of heavy drinking all only slightly tempered by the dim memory of pretty girls. All he needed was another hour or two of sleep, and perhaps he would be in a better mood, although it wasn't likely.

He was attempting to dredge up those lovely ladies in his memory when from the corner of his eye, a disgustingly hyper-active Mush bounded up, with a look on his face that when Jack was feeling charitable, he might describe as wide-eyed and innocently curious. However, Jack was not feeling charitable, and today, Mush just looked wide-eyed and idiotic.

"So, how'd ya sleep, Jack?"

It was a question that had been put to him over and over, almost daily, for as long as he'd known Mush. Generally, a mild smile and a mumbled 'eh, fine' was what the kid would get, but today, as Jack fumbled to get his pants buttoned, and feeling mulish, he just glared.

"On me -back-, Mush."

The reaction was not the one he'd hoped for.

"D'ya hear that, fellas? D'ya hear what Jack said? I asked Jack how he slept, and he said 'On me back, Mush!' "

After a quick exchange of blows that were joking on Mush's part, and threatening to become real on Jack's, Mush bounded back off again, laughing, leaving Jack wishing he could bash his head against the wall. Or perhaps bash Mush's head against the wall. Or let a rooster peck his eyes out, at least...

Instead, he was accosted yet again, by the perpetually insecure Crutchy.

"Heya, Jack? When I walk, does it look like I'm fakin it?"

No, Jack thought to himself, as he slung an arm around the kid's shoulder, no one could possibly mimic or fake that little step-hop-step thing the kid did, or his spasmodically cheerful dancing when he thought no one was really looking. He steered Crutchy towards the washroom, hoping to dispel this latest bout of insecurity with as little effort as possible, as his brain was throbbing in a steady rhythm that made it hard to even blink.

"Who says ya fakin it?"

"I dunno. It's just, there's so many fake crips on the street today, a real crip don't stand a chance. I gotta find a new sellin spot where they ain't used to seein me..."

Thankfully, the washroom was full of other boys keen to impart wisdom gleaned from years of selling newspapers on the grimy streets. He was able to ignore the issue for a bit as he found, and then mixed a cup of shaving cream. At least he had facial hair that needed shaving. Perhaps he was getting too old for this nonsense... At least it felt that way as he glanced around, only to notice Mush, grinning at him like an idiot, from the other side of the wash basins. In a fit of annoyance, he flicked the excess shaving cream on the kid's face, and had to contain laughter at the look of shock on Mush's face.

Perhaps he wasn't too old for this nonsense after all...

He put in his two cents, about bankers and barbers, which was sound advice, and then got the hell out of the washroom before the others started yelling to be heard over each other. Mumbling to himself as he finished getting dressed, Jack trooped downstairs with the others, past the anal-retentive Kloppman, who was frantically counting heads to make sure no one was trying to rip him off by sneaking in after he'd gone to bed.

Outside, the stupid sun was already shining, loud birds were already singing, and obnoxious workers were already leaving their goddamned barrels in the middle of the road. It was a road, meant for transportation and movement, and they just left barrels in the middle of it, and got annoyed when a pack of juvenile boys jumped over the barrels and played on them? Jack hadn't been awake an hour yet, and he was ready to go back to bed.

First stop of the morning was attempting to endure the patronizing preaching of a pack of proselytizing nuns, who happened to hand out bread and coffee. Sadly, Jack had no time for coffee, just bread, which he crammed a bit of into his mouth as he continued on his way, shaking his head. He liked their bread, but he was a Methodist, thanks.

And then there was that crazy lady, who showed up every day, and manhandled the boys, looking for her kid, Patrick. The story, or at least, the story Jack had heard, was that the kid was dead, died in a flu epidemic years ago, and the woman had lost her marbles completely, wandering the streets every day looking for her dead son. Her husband had left her and married a dance hall girl, taken her out to Chicago, and the woman managed to keep her apartment by doing odd jobs and things, keeping her son's room exactly as it was. He was surprised no one had taken the lady away yet, as she was clearly insane. The damn nuns never seemed to notice her, and he was pretty sure it was their job to help those in need. Perhaps she didn't fit into their agenda? Or maybe he was just being paranoid again. Bread in hand, he moved on with the others.

He was never really sure why Kloppman had opened his lodging house so far from the distribution center, except that the price of the building must have been cheaper where he'd bought it. Still, you'd think someone trying to run a lodging house for newsboys would want the newsboys closer to their work, in the hope that they'd have more energy to sell newspapers, and therefore be more likely to pay their rent. However, Jack wasn't so sure Kloppman could be counted on for his logic.

Jack did have to admit, it was a bit entertaining scaring the cranky old businessmen and other prim and proper passersby, being a large and very loud crowd of street kids, many of whom were skilled in picking pockets. The one thing they were missing was girls. It wasn't that girls didn't sell newspapers, it was just that it wasn't common, they didn't around here, and the ones he knew that did sell papers? Whew, scaaary. What was it about a girl wanting to sell newspapers that also made them all either tough and boyish or simpering and vapid? Jack was pondering this conundrum when he Racetrack started in on the Delancey brothers. As usual, unable to pick on anyone their own size, Oscar threw Snipeshooter to the ground.

"In the back, ya lousy little shrimp."

Jack helped Snipeshooter up, shaking his head. This was going to be a bad day, he could tell already.

"Ya shouldn't be callin people lousy shrimps, Oscar, unless ya referrin to the family resemblance in ya brother here."

It was petty, and slightly weak, and he knew it, but he was in a bad mood, his head was killing him, and the Delanceys were an easy target.

Racetrack, as expected, started trying to lay odds on the fight. The others pipped up that the odds were bum.

"That's right. It's an insult. So's this."

Jack knocked Morris' hat off, and took off, crossing the square and dodging, rolling under a wagon. Glancing up, he saw the awning of the bakery, and thought to himself for a moment before launching himself up, snagging the bar and hoisting himself a bit. The moment the brothers hopped up onto the wagon, he lashed out, landing satisfying kicks to their faces. If only he could kick them so hard they'd develop brains...

Then he was off again, until he ran smack into an idiot and a mini-idiot, who didn't have the common sense to get out of his way. A quick glance told him all he needed to know. The kid was alright, but the older boy was an uptight prick, who was clearly on his way to the distribution center, was clearly new, and clearly wouldn't last a day.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Jack was pretty sure the answer was obvious. But since he was in such a literal mood, he bothered to reply.

"Runnin!"

Pushing past them, he continued, in a loop, back to the gates of the distribution center, only to get into another scuffle with the brothers, that ended when Morris accidentally punched Oscar in the face. Big laughs all around, and Jack found that his headache was fading slightly. Apparently, all he'd needed was exercise. He was spared further interaction with the Delanceys when the gates opened, and he, and the others, flooded in, ready to buy papers and start their day, the Delancys muttering final threats as they split off to join their uncle behind the window. As they did, Jack wondered if it would be actually possible to train a rooster to peck their eyes out. Or anyone's for that matter. Just how trainable was a rooster?


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Wiesel, or Weasel, as Jack and several of the others called the poor man, was, as usual, cranky first thing in the morning, and running late. How that was Jack's fault, or why the man should be snapping at him, when he was still slightly hungover, a bit headachy, and a wretched combination of hungry and nauseous, he wasn't sure. He just knew that Weasel was always cranky, and sneaky, and likely to short you on papers. It was why they called him Weasel.

The usual barked banter was exchanged, how many papers were wanted, don't rush me, I'm checking the headlines, c'mon, I don't have all day, that whole thing. In the end, as everyone knew he would, Jack slammed fifty cents onto the counter, bought his papers and sat down on the edge of the platform to give the paper a proper once over.

It was a pathetic mess of headlines, as the paper had been for quite awhile, since the last war ended, and no other wars appeared to be forthcoming. There were a few promising potential lies, however. A trash fire on Ellis Island, a baby born with two heads, a socialite's dress tearing at her coming out ball, a ship lost at sea off the coast of Chile, wherever that was. A quick glance at the actual article confirmed for him that Chile was in South America. Scrap that one, no one cared about South America. He kept reading. Another worker electrocuted working on a line in Toronto, that one was a stretch, because most people didn't care about Canada, either. No, he was best sticking to the stupid trash fire, and maybe the baby born with two heads, although that was clearly a lie from the ground up.

It was only after he'd decided his tactic for the morning when he heard the commotion behind him. True to form, the idiot he'd run into earlier was standing at the window wangling about only having nineteen papes when he'd paid for twenty. Seeing the line backing up, and being an all-around good guy, Jack hopped to his feet, and went to investigate. True enough, when he counted the papes, there were only nineteen. He informed Weasel of Morris' lack of mathematical skills, only to have Morris attempt to be threatening by grabbing at the bar in the window. An additional pape was grudgingly slammed onto the stack of papes, and the new guy seemed ready to leave.

Sneakiness sparked at the back of Jack's head as he saw the kid pick up a pathetically small stack of newspapers. He had come from a long line of crooks and cons, and he knew a mark when he saw one. This would be easy money, with the kid's little kid brother helping, angelic face and all. All it took was a split second to make his choice, and he turned to Racetrack, asking if he had a spare two bits. Race, of course, did, although he'd gotten out of using it to buy papes himself, Race being almost as adept a con as Jack was. When Race tossed the quarter at him, he put it down, asking for an additional fifty papes for the new guy. The kid, to his credit, did try to resist, but Jack just thrust the papes into his arms, and kept moving, denying the kid the chance to refuse.

He kept trying though, as he and Jack moved down the steps into the little courtyard in the distribution center, attempting to hand some of the papers, not fifty of them, just some of them, Jack noted, back at him. He didn't know Jack, he didn't want Jack's papes.

But before Jack could actually reply, the kid's little kid brother pipped up that the other newsies called Jack 'Cowboy'. Maybe the little kid wasn't a total loss, at least he was paying attention.

Jack agreed he was called Cowboy, in addition to being called Jack Kelly, which was half a lie. Yes, he was called Jack Kelly, but that wasn't his name. He didn't know these two, however, and therefore didn't trust them with his real name. Instead, he just asked the little kid his name, and got the little kid's name, Les, and his brother's, David, in one fell swoop. Les also indicated that David was older. No kidding, kid. When asked how old Les was, the kid waffled enough that Jack knew he'd be a good liar. Near ten was not nine. But he needed to waffle in the other direction. Jack quickly schooled in him one sales tactic: pretending to be younger then you are. It was one he could no longer use, but when he was Les' age, he'd milked it for all it was worth.

After he'd imparted that pearl of wisdom, he casually commented that if they were all going to sell together, they should all try to be the best they could. David, predictably, began to argue. Jack reminded him that he owed him two bits, and began to spin his little con. An investment, he claimed, although it could be rightly said it was Race's investment. They would all sell together, and split it, say, 70/30, and David and Les would learn newspaper selling from the best. It was an offer he knew David would refuse. Really, he knew 60/40 was the closest thing he was going to get to a deal.

As expected, David protested yet again, only to be informed by the others, who were used to Jack's scams by now, that it was the chance of a lifetime, and not to be missed. Jack felt his heart swell a bit, knowing he'd never really find a more loyal pack of lying, sneaking crooks if hunted all across Manhattan.

But David was clearly not a complete idiot. He wondered, out loud, why Jack would need him. Jack, of course, did not need him. He survived this long without help from this annoying-looking brat. But he swallowed annoyance, just laughing it off. He didn't need David, of course, but he didn't have an angelic little brother to front for him, to peddle for him. And then in an innocent tactic, he turned to Les, asking the kid if he didn't want to sell for him. Of course, the kid did.

With a sigh, David grudgingly muttered something about 50/50. Jack grinned, knowing he'd won. 60/40 was his final offer, and David seemed to crumble, sighing and holding out his hand. In a time honored tradition, Jack spit in his hand, and moved to shake David's, only to have the kid pull away. Jack frowned, asked what was wrong, only to have David wrinkle his nose, and inform him it was disgusting. Big laughs, all around, as the other newsies chuckled at David's naivete.

As they started wandering towards the street, Jack bothered to ask David why he hadn't bought more papes, although he knew the answer. The headlines were bad, of course, replied David, and Jack gave him his second pearl of wisdom. Headlines didn't sell papes, newsies sold papes. Newsies made sure that the city knew what was going on, because without newsies, nobody would get any news.

To punctuate that point, the others started hawking headlines as the burst from the distribution center, and taking David and Les in hand, Jack lead them off in the direction of the area he normally sold in. Thankfully, all this sneakiness had ended up having a good effect on his headache, as it was gone. It did make it easier to deal with David's stuffiness, at least. The guy was going to make a terrible newsie, although his kid brother showed some promise. Jack suspected, however, he was going to have to whisper some hints to Les when David wasn't looking. Just from looking at him, he could tell David had issue with 'lying'.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Authors Note: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed this Novelization thus far! I dedicate this chapter to you :D**_

It was amazing how much could change in the matter of an hour or so. Where before, the streets were empty, now they were filled with people and vendors and boot boys and the occasional crazy person proclaiming that the end of the world was nigh. It was into this crowd that Jack led David and Les into when they left the distribution center.

They did have to make one detour, however, because David apparently had not stopped at his building's facilities before leaving the house, as one ought always do, and needed to slip off for a moment. Jack took the opportunity to teach Les a trick or two about faking sick and pathetic. The kid was a natural, mimicking Jack perfectly on the first try, which seemed to Jack to drive home a point he'd felt pretty sure about for a long time: Training children, like puppies, worked better when they were younger. Not too young, or they had the attention span of a canary, but just young enough, like eager puppies. Because when you got a dog David's age, well...he knew already there was no hope there.

David rejoined them, and they continued on their way. There was a fight scheduled, and while there was going to be a crowd there, and crowds were always good for selling, he was actually a bit curious about the bout himself. The moment he hit the edge of the crowd, he told them to scatter a bit, saw Les off for the fringe of the crowd, and tried to move off himself, towards the center of the crowd. David apparently didn't understand the idea of scattering, however, and butted ahead of him, bellowing the morning's main headline, stright from the page. Jack shook his head, and started hawking his own gussied up version of the trash fire headline, within moments selling three or four papes. David, startled and confused upon overhearing, demanded to know where that story was. Jack helpfully told him which page it was on.

Les reappeared, from the back, like he'd been told to do, and Jack handed him another paper, having him repeat the line again, about it being his last pape. The boy's naive, angelic face was almost edible, or it would be if he was a soft touch. He sent the kid off with a grin. He was gold, that one.

His brother, though...You're lying! proclaimed David, you're making things up. A big liar. David all but called him a stinky stinky foo foo head, and sounded about just as mature. But Jack protested, he was only doing what the headline writers, not to mention the reporters, did. David's father, apparently, had tried to teach his children not to lie, which was clearly not working well for Les. How precious, Jack thought, his father, who, it had to be said, failed at being a husband, failed at being a father, failed at being a role model, and even failed at being a crook, did at least have one good lesson for his son, one he shared now with David. It was better not to starve.

Once again, Les reappeared, two bits in hand, almost wiggling in his excitement, demanding another pape. David was the first to mention what even Jack could smell, that suddenly Les smelled like an alehouse. Les innocently informed the older boys that a man had bet him a quarter he wouldn't drink some. It was, perhaps, the funniest thing Jack had heard anyone say all day. The kid had serious promise. But getting busted for being disorderly and drunk was something the little boy did not need quite yet. He cautioned him against doing anything like that again, and was about to suggest he keep his drinking to the evenings when David commented that Jack apparently had an admirer.

Warden Snyder, the bane of his existence, the reason he was called Jack Kelly, the epitome of crooked cop, slime ball, and ugly mug all rolled into one squinted at him from the other side of the ring. Jack's fight or flight instinct was a fairly well balanced instrument, and without a second thought, he was off, like a bullet, barely bothering to make sure David and Les were on his tail, belatedly snapping over his shoulder that they needed to go, it was the cops.

It was times like these that a deep knowledge of not only streets and buildings, but some building interiors, and rooftop arrangements came in very handy, and Jack led them through alleys, and down streets, before finally dodging into a building he was familiar with. A woman on the first floor bought a pape from him most mornings, and had, once or twice, baked him cookies, mumbling something about taking him home, and feeding said cookies to him. It wasn't the first floor he cared about that morning. He knew the building next to it was a story shorter, and if he got up and over the edge in the proper direction, he could likely hide, very quickly.

Up, hopping over a drunk on the stairwell, nimbly dodging past a little girl with a dolly, knocking into a man who was shaving, before exploding onto the roof, only to be confronted with the rooster he'd been thinking about earlier that morning. In a flash, he had visions of chicken dinners, roasted in an oven all crispy brown, and juicy, with all the fixins, potato, and green beans, and rolls, and relish...

He was still at relish when he jumped over the side of the roof, distracted, but still smart enough to jump on the proper side, ducking down, pleased to see David and Les join him a moment later. He could hear Snyder emerge moments later, bellowing that he was going to get him, Sullivan, and drag him back to the Refuuuuuuuuge! Jack didn't need to look to see what the man was doing, shaking his fist at the sky just about, in that sanctimonious way he had.

They scooted over until they could dodge to the stairwell of the second building, paused, and Jack lit a cigarette before they casually went downstairs. They waited just a little bit again before slipping out the back, taking the long way around to Irving Hall, which was the last place anyone would look for anyone. Incidentally, it was at the door to Irving Hall when David finally insisted they stop. Jack suspected he had a stitch in his side. As for himself, he put out his cigarette, which it had made no sense to be smoking while he ran in the first place, and then dragged both boys inside.

David obviously did not have much in the way of dealings with theatre people, judging by the way he started bellowing the moment they were inside, and clearly backstage. Jack tried to quiet him, knowing that if Medda herself didn't show up, her stage manager would, and he would pitch a hissy fit. But David was demanding answers, and Jack knew he was backed into a corner now, and would have to give some of the truth, enough to sell the lie.

The Refuge was a boy's jail, and Snyder was a warden. Les, rather then looking horrified, just looked amazed as he asked if Jack had been in jail. He admitted he had, and then admitted it had been for stealing food, because he'd been hungry. Which would be true, if one could eat pocket watches and spare change. And, he insisted, his name was Jack Kelly, and yes, he had a way of improving truth, but his name was still Jack Kelly. At least, currently.

Before David could complain any more, and almost as though on cue, in a haze of purple, Medda Larkson made a not-so-grand entrance, waving her absurd fan at them, trying to shoo them out, before she spotted Jack. She and Jack went way back, to when he was little, and his father had brought him around here. His father had never been one to keep to a single woman's charms, and he'd charmed his way in with Medda. But Medda was a charmer herself, and there had been no hard feelings when things ended, in fact, she and Jack's father had remained friends, and she looked on Jack as a nephew of some sort. All he had to do was grin that famous Sullivan grin, kiss her hand, and lay a few lines on her, and it almost didn't matter that she was more then twice his age, he could see her melt like butter.

He introduced David and Les, and in a move that made him proud, Les attempted to scam the red-headed siren queen of gaudy, cheap vaudeville. For a split second, she bought it, too. But then it was laughter all around, and she suggested that the kid had a great future. Jack could have already told her that.

What he did tell her was that the lot of them needed a place to hide, and she graciously allowed them not only to hide in the theatre, but to have whatever they wanted from Toby the Candy Man. What would have been more helpful, at least in his opinion, for David's sake, would have been free reign in her bar, but Medda was no fool. She would have had no alcohol left at all by evening's end if she'd done that.

Les, at least, was delighted, and munching on candy as they drifted towards the wings to watch the various acts, starting with Medda's. Jack caught the look on David's face as she started 'Lovey Dovey', and it was a look he was familiar with. Sudden, stunned rapture with a person or object one could not obtain. The look made it clear to Jack that someone was going to have to get this boy laid, and soon, or he was going to implode from his self-righteousness. But it was a problem he could address at a different juncture, because Medda's song wasn't very long, and if he remembered the billing, there was this one blonde was going to be going on soon, and she had this cute little song and dance number he'd quite enjoyed the last time he'd seen it. All annoying chases should end with cute little blondes doing cute little song and dance numbers, Jack decided with a contented smile.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Authors Note: I have no idea what compels me to keep writing this. Hope everyone is enjoying it! And please don't mind me as I attempt to justify/address various continuity issues...**_

At some point during their time in Irving Hall, Jack and David slipped out from backstage and managed to sell the last of their papers, keeping one aside for David's father. The show was interesting to watch from backstage, but the seats in the balcony weren't bad either. They watched some from the balcony, and then slipped backstage to leave by the stage door.

First thing to do, once outside, was light a cigarette. Second thing to do was tease David. Jack knew before he asked that David had liked the show, but he asked anyway. Oh, yes, David replied, eyes all googly, Medda was beautiful. How did Jack even know her?

Jack, as always, glossed over. Medda was a...friend, of his father's. And then he changed the topic, which he often did when his father came up, and settled on the chairs the shoeshines had set up next to the theatre. Didn't Les want to shine his shoes? Les was more interested in his candy, although how he had any left, Jack had no idea.

David, of course, had to be a smart-ass and take out his watch, and sigh about the time, and his parents worrying. Jack was sure they were worrying, a kid like David, all alone on the streets of New York after dark. Then he asked Jack one of those questions he really didn't like, bringing the topic of Jack's father right back around. What about Jack's parents? Were they likely to be worried?

Admitting his mother was gone would elicit sympathy, of course, but admitting his father was in jail would just confirm David's probably budding belief that Jack was a crook as well. He could say they were both dead, but that was a bit heavy-handed. However, if he claimed they were both still alive, then where were they, and why didn't they give a damn about him?

Luckily, like any good grifter, Jack already had his lie at hand. His parents were out west, looking for a ranch, like the cowboy in the penny dreadful he had in his back pocket. Santa Fe. Once his folks had a ranch, they'd send for him. See? Santa Fe. Cowboy. Get it? He was practicing for being a real one.

Les, at least, caught on.

This was a topic he liked, however, and he was ready to start telling them all about how Santa Fe was going to be great when he heard a crash. Metal and wood crashing, the sound of a trolly. Jack took off at a run, the others following, although Les seemed to weave a bit, his sugar high apparently fading. As they rounded the corner near the Astor Hotel, he saw the flames, saw the fighting. The trolly strikers had managed to derail and crash a trolly, setting it alight, and were now ganging up on the scab trolly drivers, who stood no chance at all of surviving. It was the closest thing to a riot Jack had seen in awhile, and it was a guarantee of a good headline.

David didn't seem to notice, however, more keen to go home to his mama and divvy up the money they'd made during the day. Jack tried to impress upon David that this was big doings, this was a headline, this was what made them money. David just wanted to get out of there, and as the fighting got worse, Jack had to agree. There was no point in getting caught up with the growing chaos, although it was going to make for a doozy of a headline. Putting out his cigarette, he glanced around for Les, and saw the kid slumped on a bench, asleep. Laughing, he picked him up and indicated David ought to be leading them to his home.

Not much was said as they walked, the sounds and lights of the fighting fading behind them. David lived in a nicer neighborhood then Jack did, but then again, that wasn't hard. The building wasn't the fanciest, but it at least looked well kept, and when the door to his family's apartment opened, Jack could see that while it wasn't large, it wasn't small either.

David's mother shrieked when she saw Jack carrying Les, sure some horrible damage had come to her baby boy, but David reassured her that he was just sleeping. David's father clearly had been worried about his sons, demanding to know where they'd been, dinner had been held off for them. Jack handed Les off to David's mother, who went to put him to bed, while David gave a quick explanation, and introduced Jack to the rest of the family. Father, mother, sister Sarah, wait, hold the boat. Back up. Sister Sarah, hm? So there was something really worthwhile about this family, other then the fact that Les was a potentially brilliant little con artist?

Sarah did that shy glance thing that Jack knew girls did when they wanted to flirt openly, but either couldn't, or wouldn't because they thought for some reason that guys liked demure girls. Jack didn't especially like demure girls, real or pretend, but he could make an exception for this one.

He was so distracted he almost didn't notice David's parents invite him for dinner. He accepted, quickly. His plans for dinner had included a bit of drinking, since he was pretty sure he'd left some whiskey in a bottle hidden on the roof of the lodging house. Actual food was probably better for him.

Dinner was a cheerful conversation with thin, but decent helpings of hearty stew. He again told the story about his family being out west, and how he'd been selling newspapers for a very long time. He didn't mention his stint in jail, and neither did David. David's father did most of the questioning, but Sarah pipped up every once and awhile. He felt it was going rather well until he got distracted again by Sarah flirting, and started reeling off words that made for a catchy headline. Luckily, he stopped himself before he could horrify David's parents too much. David's father seemed to approve, calling for a cake that was apparently for his birthday the next day to be brought out now, in celebration of this new partnership. Why he couldn't have called for vodka at the same time, Jack didn't know, but he would never turn down cake.

They were in the midst of eating said cake when Les, in his sleep, started singing Lovey Dovey Baby. David and Jack had glossed over that portion of their day, and rather then explain now, they just dissolved into giggles. Apparently David's mother found this to be perfectly normal behaviour, not to mention the proper response to her questioning them.

Jack helped bring plates to the kitchen after the cake, and then after being put on drying duty, he and David went outside for a bit of air. He'd been curious, so he asked how David's father had gotten hurt, and got the story. An accident at his factory. With no union, he'd been sacked.

It wasn't fair, but Jack knew that was the way the world worked. David seemed about to say more, and Jack was starting to worry he was going to turn out to be one of those European-sounding rabble rousers who were forever causing trouble and trying to get the world to unionize so the evil rich people could stop lording it over the poor people, but David's father interrupted before he could start, and told David it was time for bed. David hesitated, and then invited Jack to sleep over. Jack, who had never been invited to sleep over at a friend's house before, declined, stating he had his own place to go home to, but David's family was nice and all. Like his, if David's family were a bit more broken, and criminal.

David tried to awkwardly use a newsie catchphrase as a goodbye, and Jack just sort of chuckled, repeating it back at him, and decending the fire escape, and starting in the direction of the lodging house, pondering his own father, his own...family. How David's family was so normal, so nice. And his family was so broken and scattered. But then again, he didn't need a family. He didn't need anyone watching over his shoulder, spying on his every move, waiting around for him to come home. Because one of these days, he wasn't going to go home.

The whole thing with Santa Fe wasn't just a con. He actually wanted to go there. It was his dream, although he didn't usually put it that way. He was more likely to call it an ultimate goal. To leave this city, and everything and everyone in it, and go to Santa Fe. Alone. But, see, he wouldn't be alone. He'd be in Santa Fe. And Santa Fe was worlds better then this place.

Sometimes it felt as though the only time he could stomach the city was at night, when no one was around, and everything was silent. He could wander around and just daydream without the risk of getting caught daydreaming. Daydreams about trains out west, the prairies, wind in his hair, racing past. Beyond them, desert, a sun so big it filled the sky. He'd be free there, not shackled to the newspaper, not running from Snyder, or his past. It was a feeling so real, so intense, that he could call it up, almost in an instant, whenever he was alone, or when he stood on a rooftop to feel the breeze, just close his eyes, and there he was. Nothing could change that.

All he needed was a bit more money. He needed to save just a bit more money, and he'd be gone. On that damn train to Santa Fe. He didn't have to spend his whole life trapped in the grime and filth that was New York. He never signed anything with the newspaper, and they had no hold on him, either. He deserved to get the hell out, he deserved to have a dream. Just because he was a nothing, nobody street kid, goddamnit, didn't mean he was trapped. Other kids his age might just give up, and live their lives never thinking of something better, but not Jack. There was nothing there, in the city, just an endless cycle of work and rent, trying to desperately cling to a moment of happiness here and there. Working for a newspaper that didn't give a damn about newsies like him, and when he got too old for that, working for someone else who only cared about themselves.

That wasn't what Jack was about. He was made for bigger things, better things, bigger places. Places like Santa Fe. He'd make it there, he would. For him, it was the one thing he had. He would go, be a cowboy, ride the ranges with a six-shooter at his hip, and a lasso at the ready, riding a horse into the sunset. And he'd make it there before too long, too. He would.

As he got closer to the lodging house, he spotted Race with his 'I just lost all my money at the tracks' face. After they greeted each other, he asked Race how the day had gone, although he knew. Race informed him that the horse had not been in on the tip. Big chuckles all around.

_**Author's closing notes: I'm sorry there was no rooster in this chapter. Perhaps next time. I might even move on to another animal. Comment with an animal, and I'll try to fit it in! It'll be like a puzzle! A big animal puzzle!**_


End file.
